


The Best of Us

by romanoff



Series: snippets/WIPs [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 12:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15606051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: Tony and Steve introduce Peter to the realities of their business.





	The Best of Us

**Author's Note:**

> When I'm bored/lack inspiration, I upload all my WIPS and let people select which ones they like best. So, let me know if you like!

Tony moved house a while back. Peter remembers when he used to live in Malibu – he remembers watching it on CNN, the whole thing come tumbling down. He remembers the tower, too; he’d watched them build it.  
   
He remembers, him and Uncle Ben, standing amongst the crowds watching as Tony Stark lifted heavy beams and construction materials, flew them all the way to the top to help the builders. They’d cheered when he’d zoomed overhead. At least, Peter had – Uncle Ben wasn’t sold. He’d sighed, craned his head to watch, hands on hips. “Just what this city needs,” he’d muttered. “More unaffordable real estate.”  
   
That hadn’t meant anything to Peter. He thought it was amazing. A whole suit, made of metal? Flying through the air. _Woah._ Back then, he’d been annoyed that Uncle Ben didn’t understand how _cool_ it was, how great. Who care if the apartments were unaffordable? They were powered by an _arc reactor!_ And Tony Stark was going to be living here! In their city!  
   
If Uncle Ben was ever going to come around to Tony Stark, he never got the chance. A year later he was dead, crushed by falling debris during the battle of New York. Peter likes to think he’d be glad Mr Stark had put his big old tower in their city, if only because that meant he was there to defend it.  
   
Now, Mr Stark lives in a brownstone on a secluded street on the Upper East Side. Bachelor pad, is how he described it. Neighbours who are rich enough not to care that Tony Stark lives next door.  
   
Peter stands in front of the cast-iron gate, stares up at all three floors-and-a-loft-conversion of it. He misses the doorbell, pokes his finger against the metal fence, takes him a few times to get it right with his vision swimming in and out of view. He’s so dizzy. He’s so – so –  
   
The gate opens, automatically. Huh. What is that, Peter wonders. Some kind of biometric scanner? Does the gate _know_ it’s Peter? Does Mr Stark trust him that much? He’s swaying on his feet, pondering, when Mr Stark’s modulated voice comes through the speaker. “You going to stand there like a lemon?” He snaps. “Get in, kid.”  
   
More like a video feed, probably. Mr Stark must have seen him coming, Friday would have told him. “Coming,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. It’s so cold. He stumbles forward, has trouble with the steps, and – and Mr Stark has opened the door, is looking left and right like he’s expecting ninjas to jump out of his neat green hedges. The light from the house is warm, and inviting.  
   
Peter trips up on the last stair, gets caught before he can fall flat on his face. “Your reflexes are off,” Mr Stark says, roughly, hitching him up to stand him straight. “And – and you’re bleeding,” he adds, flatly, eyes revealing nothing.  
   
“I…” Peter starts, trying to think how best to make the words work in his favour. “I was – “  
   
“Get in,” Mr Stark says, hurriedly, pulling him inside. “Don’t you know how vulnerable – standing out there, outside _my_ house – fucking hell, the neighbours are nosy enough as it is, last thing I need to see is a blog calling me a pervert who uses underage rent boys – “  
   
“Rambling,” Peter groans, leaning back against the wall, putting his head in his hands. It’s warm, but the light is no longer inviting; it’s too _bright,_ and Mr Stark is talking too _much –_  
   
“ – and not to even start on who could have found you, in _your_ state.” Mr Stark snaps his fingers in front of Peter’s face; lazily, he tries to swipe them away, but is too slow, and Mr Stark snatches back his hand.  
   
“Um,” Peter mumbles, trying to stand straight, “I got an uber.”  
   
“Great. So now there’s a cab driver somewhere who knows your face and knows you were visiting my house late at night who needs to be paid off. _Again.”_  
   
Peter knows Mr Stark wants him to be careful. The scholarship is a good rouse, but it only goes so far, and late night visits aren’t really the kind of thing mentors do with their mentees. “I’m _sorry,”_ Peter moans. “I’m – I was – “  
   
“Drunk,” Mr Stark says shortly, “yeah, I know, I’m not stupid. I can smell it on you. That’s illegal, by the way.”  
   
“I won’ do it again.”  
   
Mr Stark sniffs him, recoils. “You’ve been smoking.”  
   
“No,” Peter lies, poorly. “Other people were smoking. I was just – sitting, I swear – “  
   
“Ugh.” Mr Stark grabs him by the upper arm, drags him at an arms-length. “No. I can’t have that, you’re getting weed-smell all over my house. I can’t have you getting Woodstock all over my new upholstery, shower. I’ll bring you clothes that don’t stink like a fucking – ugh,” Mr Stark says again, like he can’t even bear the thought, _“ugh.”_  
   
“It’s jus’ weed,” Peter mumbles, almost petulant. Mr Stark shoots him daggers.  
   
“Yeah, we’ll talk about it after,” he says shortly, in a way that suggests he’ll be talking and Peter will be shutting up and listening. “Don’t slip and die, I don’t want to have to explain to your aunt why you ended up dead at my house. Although, actually, if I told her why she’d probably go easy. In fact,” Tony snaps, “why _aren’t_ you are your aunts?”  
   
A brief pause. Peter looks sheepishly past Mr Stark’s head. “Ah,” he realises, “you think – oh! You think I’m going to go easy on you! What, that I’d give you a place to say, tell you ‘hey, breaking the law is cool, I’m a cool guy, drink and smoke as much as you like, hell, bring your friends!’”  
   
“I didn’t think – “  
   
“No. Nope. _Shower._ Then, we talk, if you’re still capable of it. Wait – why are you bleeding?”  
   
The cut on Peter’s brow sluggishly bled for about an hour. Now, it’s crusted, browning and thick. “Um,” he sighs, trying to think about how best to say this without giving Mr Stark an aneurysm. “Um – I kinda, kinda got mugged, you know?”  
   
“You got mugged. Spiderman got mugged. What did they take?”  
   
“Nothin’, ‘cos I wouldn’t let go of my phone, but – oh, actually, they stabbed me,” Peter remembers. “Here, I – “  
   
He holds up his arm, and suddenly the pain is _there._ Huh? How’d he not notice that before? Oh no. He’s probably bled all over the nice Uber-drivers back-seat. “Shit,” he slurs, “that’s, uh, worse than I remember – “  
   
Mr Stark is gently taking his hand, turning over his forearm. He carefully rolls up Peter’s sleeve, traces his fingers along the cold skin, red and sticky with blood. “They could have slit your wrist,” he says, quietly. “You would have bled out.”  
   
“Didn’t, though,” Peter says triumphantly.  
   
Mr Stark drops his arm, grasps his head in both hands and pulls at his cheeks, checks his pupils, squinting. “Just how stoned are you?” He asks, lowly.  
   
“D’know. Never done it before.”  
   
Mr Stark pulls back. “Get on the couch,” he mutters, “I’ll fix that, just – just don’t bleed everywhere, if you can avoid it.”  
   
“Wha’ about the Woodstock smell?”  
   
“I’d rather you didn’t die, to be honest Pete.”  
   
Mr Stark’s living room looks like it came out of one of those magazines that Aunt May would read in the dentist waiting room. He sits on one of the leather couches, and stares at the huge black flat-screen hitched above the fireplace. Wow. He’d love to – oh, he already is, how’d the remote get in his hand? He’s channel surfing, and then he notices the potpourri on the coffee table that was obviously placed there by an interior designer and decides he needs to smell it, asap. Good enough to eat. Could he eat it? _Can_ you eat potpourri?  
   
He’d bled all over the couch, even though he said he wouldn’t. The potpourri and the blood – is all smells too much. He covers his nose, tips back his head, and all he can hear is the rushing blood in his ears. _Am I real?_ He thinks, drowsily. _Am I even real?_  
   
His heart is thudding, thud-thud-thud, harder than it’s ever thudded before. Everything is – more. The fire in the grate is too hot, as if he was standing right next to it and letting it blister his skin. The leather sticking to his sweaty skin.  
   
The hairs on the back of his hand stand on end. It’s not DANGERDANGER, more like – oof. Somethingwrongsomethingwrong. Hard to categorize. A feeling of unease, which is getting worse by the second.  
   
“Okay,” Mr Stark says, carrying a bowl, a first aid kit, some cloth. “I’d take you to the hospital, but I don’t want to raise any questions like, why is he half-healed already, and why was he doing illegal things in the first place, and why are you bringing in a drugged and drunk seventeen-year old who looks like he tried to end it in a bathtub.”  
   
“I don’t – I don’t feel so great,” Peter croaks, head still tipped back against the couch.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says quietly. “You won’t.”  
   
“Am – am I going to die?”  
   
Tony snorts, rolling up Peter’s sleeve. “No, Peter. You’re not going to die.”  
   
“My heart is – can you hear it?”  
   
“No. We don’t all have super-senses, you know.”  
   
“Think it’s – it’s g’nna burst out my chest.”  
   
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t.”  
   
Peter frowns. “You’re mad,” he whispers.  
   
Tony sighs. “This will hurt,” he says. “I’m swabbing it down.”  
   
He tips an alcohol laden cotton bud against the slit in Peter’s forearm. “Ouch!” He nearly – nearly! -- screams. “Ow, ow, ow – “  
   
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Tony grumbles.  
   
“It _hurts.”_  
   
“Yeah, and I warned you, didn’t I?”  
   
“You’re mad,” Peter says again, against the thudding in his ears. He can hear Tony’s heart, too; slow, and steady, with the occasional – what is that? Tremor? Missing a beat?  
   
“The dope’s messing with your senses,” Tony says instead. “Must be heightening them. Let’s hope it wears off, or you’ll be in for a hell of a hangover.”  
   
“You’re,” Peter breathes, “ _mad._ I can _tell._ And no one calls it dope anymore. _”_  
   
Tony presses his lips together. “I’m not going to shout at you, if that’s what you mean.”  
   
“You are mad,” Peter slurs, crestfallen.  
   
Tony discards the blood-soaked cotton bud. “I’m not mad,” he says, “I’m – “  
   
“Disappointed?”  
   
“Hah. No. I’m – you’re not my nephew, or son, or whatever. It’s really not my job to tell you what’s good and what’s bad, or how – to be an upstanding moral citizen.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“But – it is my job,” Tony says, lightly, taking out a numbing spray, “to help you – be a better… a better…”  
   
He sighs. “I hate the word ‘superhero’,” he admits. “They just call us that so they have an excuse to reboot superman for umpteenth time. But I guess, it’s my job to help you be a better hero, for lack of a better word. And – you’re a kid, I get that, but I shouldn’t have to tell you – “  
   
“Not to take drugs and drink. I get it.”  
   
Tony winces. “No. I don’t want to sound like a dictator, Peter, it’s important you – figure this shit out for yourself. But you’re not like other kids. Hell, you’re not even like – you don’t have the luxuries that other kids have. To fuck about. To waste ten years of your life.”  
   
“It was just a couple beers,” Peter says, almost defensive. “It’s not like I’m going to end up on the street, or – or some kind of alcoholic, or a rent-boy, or a dealer.”  
   
Tony’s heart skips another beat, picks up it’s pace. “I’m not saying you will,” he sighs. “Just that – I guess you’ve got to be careful.”  
   
“Because it hurts me more than it hurts others?”  
   
“Sure. That’s definitely one reason.” Tony sounds strange. He – sounds a like a school-teacher, not his usual self. “It’s not good for you, because, as we can both see, it’s making you go haywire. But also because – “ he frowns, carefully threads the needle through Peter’s numbed skin, “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how to say it.”  
   
“Try,” Peter rasps.  
   
“You know, in our line of work, it’s not always sunshine and roses. And I’ve – tried to protect you. From the worst of that,” he mutters, focusing hard on Peter’s arm.  
   
“I know. But I can take care of myself, I’m almost an adult – “  
   
Tony snorts. “Eighteen isn’t an adult.”  
   
“It is!”  
   
“Yeah, _right,”_ Tony says, in a way that suggests Peter should catch himself on. “Okay. And you’ll still be living with your aunt, still in high school, still no driver’s license – “  
   
“I’m going to get it,” Peter says defensively, “there’s just no point in New York.”  
   
“Still playing your video games, and lego – “  
   
“They’re collectable,” he mumbles, “it’s actually really difficult. Takes real skill.”  
   
“My point is – you’re still…. Developing. Your brain. It’s all soft, and mushy. A lot of what we do when we’re kids – it gets imbedded. Leads to some nasty habits later on.”  
   
“Like what?”  
   
“Like… when I was a kid, whenever I was sad, my butler would take me for a burger. And now I’m fifty, and – whenever I’m sad,” he says, awkwardly, “I crave burgers.”  
   
“That’s not really a bad thing,” Peter slurs. “Also, wha’? You had a _butler?”_  
   
“I’m trying to say, the things you do now become habit later. And if you think you can protect yourself, if you think you’re fine without anybody, it’s only because you – haven’t really suffered,” Tony finishes, flatly, darkly. “And being blunt, Pete – I don’t want you to one day have a nightmare and think that, actually, maybe a drink, or weed, or hey, something _else_ is the way to deal with it.”  
   
Silence. Tony finishes stitching Peter’s arm. He’s not sure what it is, whether it’s the feeling of heightened total safety, or the drink, or just his own stupid self, that makes him ask, “Is that how you deal with it?”  
   
Tony frowns, looks up. “Huh?”  
   
“The – drinking, or drugs, or whatever. Is that the way you deal with it.”  
   
“The – oh. Talk about delayed reaction, kid.”  
   
“Sorry. If you don’t want to – shouldn’t ask,” Peter whispers.  
   
“It’s fine. Actually, I don’t drink.”  
   
“I’ve seen you drink.”  
   
“I drink substitutes. You know, fake beer, stuff like that. I like the taste, don’t like the consequences.”  
   
“Oh.” A beat. “Why?” Peter blurts.  
   
“Because I don’t like the consequences,” Tony says again, with a tone that suggests Peter should drop it. “Tell me about your mugger,” he distracts, bandaging Peter’s arm.  
   
He sighs. “Wasn’t actually, necessarily, my mugger,” he mumbles. “Maybe mugging someone else.”  
   
Tony freezes. “You stepped in.”  
   
“Right. But head isn’t working so good, and – got all off base.”  
   
“Were you wearing a mask? Hell, of course you weren’t.”  
   
“He… didn’t see my face. I don’t think,” Peter adds, quieter.  
   
“You – took on a mugger. With no mask. And not only did he probably see your face, but he also tried to _kill_ you, and you were so damn doped – “  
   
“No one says doped,” Peter interrupts drowsily.  
   
“That you couldn’t even – that _you_ couldn’t even fight back against – “  
   
“Didn’t use web,” Peter insists, “promise. Just normal average me. And the bastard didn’t get my phone,” he says, proudly.  
   
“I don’t give a fuck about your phone,” Tony says harshly. “I thought he attacked you, not the other way around.”  
   
Peter frowns. He can hear Tony’s heart thump-thump-thumping, harder and harder, faster and faster. “He was tryna’ hurt a girl,” he says, slowly. “Wasn’t gonna let him.”  
   
“Even though you can barely walk in a straight line?” Tony snarls. “What would have happened if he stabbed you in the gut? What then?”  
   
“I… would have got the uber, and come here.”  
   
“With your fucking intestines hanging out?!”  
   
“You’re mad,” Peter notes.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony spits, “I’m mad. Fucking hell, Pete. You’re not – you’re not some kind of – “  
   
“Friendly, neighbourhood spiderman?”  
   
“No. Not when you’re off your head and not able to walk straight. Then, you’re just Peter Parker, dumb high-school kid, understand? I can’t believe you – would even _put_ yourself in that situation – “  
   
“He wanted her purse.”  
   
“And?! Jesus, you’re telling me he wasn’t even trying to – hurt her? He just wanted a _purse?_ Didn’t you ever hear, just _give_ it to them?!”  
   
“It’s the principle,” Peter slurs. “Otherwise he’d keep doing it again. And – and what if she had all the money in the world in that purse? Then it would mean more.”  
   
“Stand up,” Tony snaps at him. “Walk in a straight line.”  
   
“Mr Stark…”  
   
“Do it! C’mon. You’re so tough, walk in a straight line!”  
   
“You know I can’t.”  
   
“Huh. So you _do_ know your limits, weird.”  
   
“Please don’t shout.”  
   
“I’m not shouting!” Tony shouts.  
   
“You do it. You – help people. Even when it means you getting hurt.”  
   
“I’m an adult, I can make real choices. You’re a kid, and you’re stupid, and if you’d been hurt – you would have died. Do you understand? You could have died. Because some stupid idiot put it in your head that you’re supposed to help people, or that you can help people, and – you’re stupid,” Tony says again, “you think you’re invincible. You’re seventeen, death doesn’t mean anything to you, understand? You can’t even consider it. You don’t ever think you’ll die. But you’re flesh and bone, Peter. You can die just as easy as anyone else.”  
   
He’s gripping Peter’s shoulders, tight, maybe too tight. “Mr Stark,” he says weakly, “you’re hurting me.”  
   
Tony releases him, like he’s a hot coal.  
   
  
  
 _Steve introduces Peter to the realities of their business._  
   
They’d brought him in on a pallet, a piece of debris that someone had scavenged from the wreck.  
   
“He’s alive, isn’t he?” Peter had asked. Barnes had grunted, barely acknowledging his existence, and pushed him aside to help lever Mr Stark down onto the dusty table. Too many people, stinking of sweat and blood. Mr Stark is worst of all. His brain hates it, won’t accept it. Salt and iron. Mr Stark usually smells of vanilla, tempered with something strangely rosy.  
   
“Wait,” Peter had tried again, slightly desperate, panic a weird, cloying thing in his stomach, sick with dread. “He’s going to live? Mr – Bucky, he’s going to live, he’s not going to – “  
   
No one listens to him. Black Widow – Romanoff, Natasha, whatever, settles herself by Tony’s head, one hand smoothing along his belly, the place where metal has dented and split, digging into his skin. It could just be superficial, Peter thinks, a scratch.  
   
“Suit has administered light painkiller,” she says, “always does. Won’t be enough for this, though.”  
   
Rogers, now. Captain America. He has to duck his head when he’s entering the basement, pulling off his helmet and mussing his hair. “Jesus,” he breathes, “okay. Is he awake? Tony, you awake? Can you hear me?”  
   
Mr Stark mumbles something. His hair is sweaty and stuck to his forehead, someone’s taken the helmet. It had been – a building, a whole building, but this whole section of Lagos is still under siege. No saying when acid will be cleared from the streets, completely unsafe for paramedics to fly though, and –  
   
Mr Stark is bleeding, through Natasha’s fingers. Peter feels queasy. “Let me help,” he says, hoarsely. He didn’t realise he had anything to say, but he says it. “I can help.”  
   
“Bucky,” Rogers says, “you hold down his shoulders. Don’t you worry Tony, we’re going to get this off you. All over in a minute. Natasha, you know how to get the suit off of him – Sam’s gonna bring needle, thread, bandage and alcohol, but that’s all we’re working with.”  
   
Peter knows first aid. He knows…  
   
Mr Stark’s skin is white, drained. He’s got a weird, bluish tinge, and he manages to only just slit open his eyes, lips moving slowly, and sluggishly fall still once more. Peter had helped drag him out. He’d moved parts of the building with his own hands. He knows what it’s like to be buried.  
   
“This might be it,” Barnes says, quietly, taking Steve’s arm, a private conversation. “He might not pull through. We should prepare for – “. It’s how the cops spoke, the night Ben died. Hats in their hands, voices low, speaking as if saying what they say is only made real by the words themselves. Bad news. Bad news? No. No, Tony will be okay. Mr Stark will _live –_  
   
“I can help,” Peter blurts, again, and this time the Captain looks up. He shares a quick look with Natasha.  
   
“Kid,” he says, turning back to Peter. “You’ve got to go. In fact – you shouldn’t see this. Sam’s coming soon, sit with him, would you?”  
   
He shakes his head, croaks. “I can help,” he insists. He holds out his hand, the webbing there sticky and strong. “It’ll fix. Better than a bandage.”  
   
“Stark’ll kill you if you let the kid see this,” Barnes mutters.  
   
“I think Tony would rather live,” Natasha says, sounding waspish.  
   
But both of them wait for the Captain to speak. “The kid can stay.” Finality. “It’s nothing he’s not going to see again. Nat, you start working on that armour.”  
   
Peter swallows, hot relief in his throat. It’s hard to explain. He doesn’t want to see this, but he wants to help. He needs to. Mr Stark –  
   
Makes a weird gurgling noise, face scrunching up like he’s tasted something sour. “Don’t,” he says, word rolling over his lips, eyes half-shut. “Don’t, please, wait – “  
   
Natasha says sorry, she tells him this is going to hurt, and she quickly, efficiently, snaps the breaks on his armor. The chestplate falls loose, then the guard around the stomach, and Mr Stark’s mouth opens wide in what should maybe a scream, but is soundless. White noise, face screwed with pain, arching off the table, and then –  
   
“Bite this,” Barnes says, flat. “It’ll help.”  
   
Mr Stark is shaking his head, eyes wide. Mr Stark is scared.  
   
“Hold him.” The Captain says shortly. “Natasha, what’s the damage?”  
   
And now her fingers are red, stained with blood. There are so many people crowding the table, Peter can’t quite see the wound, but he knows it’s long, and deep. He can see –  
   
Oh. He can see some of Mr Stark’s intestines. That’s – that’s –  
   
 _If you vomit here, you’ll be the kid who contaminated a sickbay._  
   
The Captain curses, swears, runs his hands through his hair. “Tony,” he says, and takes his hand. “You’re going to be okay, understand? Acid will clear soon, and aid is coming, but for now we’re going to have – I’m sorry, Tony, I’m _sorry,_ we have to do something or you’ll bleed out.”  
   
Mr Stark strains against the bit they’re put between his teeth. He opens his mouth and it slips free. “Wait,” he croaks, “it’s not so bad, don’t – “  
   
“Bucky, hold him,” The Captain says again, brutal. “Natasha, put it back in his mouth. Kid, come here.”  
   
Peter’s feet move, somehow, of their own accord. Up close it looks worse. A gash, a slice, across Tony’s stomach from his hip to just above his navel. Deep.  
   
It looks bad, sure. No one ever told him to prepare for the _smell._  
   
A hand, heavy on his shoulder. “Peter,” The Captain is saying urgently. “Can you close this? Could your webbing really do that?”  
   
He nods, numbly. “Has before. It was – just a small cut, but it holds the skin together, more sterile than a thread.”  
   
“Excellent,” The Captain says, like he’s done something worth praising. “That’s just what we need, okay? We can’t touch it, not like you can. Could you thread it through the needle?”  
   
The Captain holds it up to his eye. It’s not like in movies. It’s the kind of thing Aunt May used to use to mend his shirts or fix a flyaway thread on a sweater. “Yeah,” Peter huffs, unable to imagine how it would even _work._ “Yeah I could.”  
   
“Do it, then,” The Captain orders, handing it to him point first. On the table, Tony moans. He tries to cover his wound with a hand, but Barnes is holding his hands firm on the table, Natasha holding his head.  
   
“Don’t,” he begs again, “don’t, please don’t.”  
   
“Keep his mouth shut!” The Captain snarls, “For the third fucking time, do _not_ let him bite his tongue!”  
   
Wordlessly, Natasha coils her hands on either side of the rag they’ve used to gag him, holds it against the table so he’s pinned. He’s confused, Peter thinks, someone should explain to him – they should make him know that they don’t want to hurt him –  
   
“Kid,” The Captain snaps. “You got that needle yet?”  
   
His hands are shaking. It shouldn’t be hard, but his hands are shaking. Only he can handle the webbing, and his senses are used to delicate work, but with Mr Stark groaning on the table, the smell of blood and innards and sweat and puke, he can’t – it’s hard to focus –  
   
Slow time. Breathe deep. Sound doesn’t exist, past the pulse in his ears. Thread the webbing through the needle, easy as you like.  
   
“It’s done,” he croaks. “Here,” he passes the needle quick as he can into The Captain’s palm. “If I stand here, there’s – there’ll be more than enough,” Peter tries to explain. “More than enough to – to stitch.”  
   
It’s Banner who stands over him, pulls the skin back together, taut. Mr Stark screams. He screams, and screams, and screams. “Needle,” Bruce says. “Steve, hold this.”  
   
‘This’ being the flayed and bloody seams of Tony’s stomach. Peter vomits into his mouth, swallows it back. Banner starts threading, focused, simmering with adrenalin, skin tinged green. Wilson holds Mr Stark’s legs, grunts when Mr Stark kicks him in the chest. He screams. He doesn’t stop screaming.  
   
He pisses himself, but none of them mention it. Steve keeps pinching his torn belly back together, Bruce threading it using Peter’s webbing. It takes over an hour. No one talks, short of to issue a command. Sometimes, Natasha will try and soothe Mr Stark, her knuckles white where they hold his head pinned with the cloth gag.  
   
“Why won’t he pass out,” Barnes grits, holding down his arms still. “Jesus fucking Christ, let him pass out – “  
   
“Almost there,” Banner tells them, voice ragged. “You hear that Tony? Not long now.”  
   
But Mr Stark’s given up on screaming. His eyes are still open, barely, trying to weakly toss his head. Peter sees his hands clench and unclench, over and over. He can smell his pain, visceral and putrid. He smells it in the sweat.  
   
After a few shaky minutes, Banner leans back, presses his forearm to his damp head. “Steve,” he croaks, “blot the bleeding.”  
   
The Captain obey, easily, holding a dirty rag to his belly to try and staunch the rest of the flow. Wilson takes pressure off Mr Stark’s legs; he twitches when they touch the wound, but no longer has the energy to protest.  
   
“Prognosis?” The Captain asks, voice hoarse.  
   
Banner is washing his hands in the rusty sink. He shrugs a shoulder, voice empty, devoid of any emotion. “If he lasts the night, he’ll live. That’s only if quarantine is lifted. More than three days, and…” Banner seems to consider. “No,” he settles, “I don’t think he could last more than three days before infection takes him.”  
   
Takes him. Takes him where?  
   
“What’ll it be?” The Captain asks.  
   
“Painful. Thank God the metal didn’t catch his organs – then he would be dead. I’d recommend euthanasia, bullet to the head to make it quick,” Banner says darkly.  
   
“Bruce,” Natasha warns, quietly. “C’mon, he can hear you.”  
   
Peter doubts it. Mr Stark is barely conscious, insensate, mumbling on the hard wood table.  
   
Banner softens. “We can’t move him. It’s safer down here, and he wouldn’t make the stairs. Peter,” he addresses directly, “see what you can find upstairs to make him more comfortable.”  
   
A task. Peter seizes upon it, even though he knows they just want him out of the room to talk. He can hear their voices. “Kid did good,” Barnes says grudgingly, and The Captain agrees.  
   
He scavenges some blankets, towels, a single ratty pillow which looks like is serves as a dog’s bed. When he returns, he sees someone has balled up their shirt and pushed it under Mr Stark’s head, stripped him of his undersuit entirely and hastily covered his groin with a rag for decency. It’s not right. To see him like this it’s – uncanny, it feels wrong, in every way.  
   
“Good find,” The Captain tells him, finally bestowing upon him a weary smile. “Bruce, he found a blanket.”  
   
Banner grunts, one hand leaning against the wall, head bowed, fingers clenched. “He appreciates it,” Steve tells him, “just needs some time to cool off.”  
   
Wilson has taken over dabbing Mr Stark’s brow with the wet rag. He’s shaking on the table, skin freakishly white, lips a bluish grey, spittle flecking the sides of his mouth.  
   
“Don’t look,” The Captain tells him. “It’s alright. Sorry, you did a good job. It’s probably your first time, right?”  
   
“What?” Peter asks, distracted. “Yeah, oh yeah. First time…”  
   
“Dealing with something like this. The blood, the surgery. The smell,” The Captain adds, knowingly.  
   
 _The smell._ “Can’t stop, uh.” Peter shakes his head, runs fingers through his hair; he still has webbing on his tips, and it sticks, messes it more than it already is. “Thinking about that. Never thought it would…” hot iron, sweat, vomit and urine. It’s… something else.  
   
The Captain slings an arm around his shoulders, pulls him off to the side. “You know,” he says quietly, “he might not make it.”  
   
Peter frowns. That’s not what’s supposed to happen. They always make it.  
   
“He will,” Peter says, firmly. The Captain, nods, eyes sad, and claps him on the back.  
   
“Sure,” he says, maybe thinking Peter is saying it for his benefit. “Sure, he will.”  
   
On the table, Tony coughs. It’s wet, and hacking, and he – makes this noise, like a whimper. Natasha tips his head to the side, urges him to spit, and when he does it comes out bloody.  
   
Peter looks away. “But help is coming,” he says. “Right? They’ll come.”  
   
“Not about help. It’s about quarantine. Don’t know what’s in that acid. If we could get somewhere high… but it’s too risky. Would burn right through us, and no one can fly.”  
   
“I can,” Peter croaks. “I mean – I can get somewhere high.”  
   
“Kid,” Steve says softly, “I’ve thought through every angle. I considered it. But that shit burnt through your webbing like butter. I can’t risk you getting to the top of a skyscraper and then – “ His lips form a line. “Tony wouldn’t want that,” he mutters, quietly.  
   
“If Tony dies it won’t matter what he wants,” Peter blurts. “Please. Let me.”  
   
“Don’t let him,” Tony croaks. His words slur, but are steady. His breathing is strained. “Don’t… don’t let him, not worth it.”  
   
“Tony, I – “  
   
“Leave him, kid,” Steve says gently. “Don’t upset him. He can’t fight you now.”  
   
Stupidly, pathetically, Peter feels hot tears burning his eyes. He wants to help; he _can_ help. But they would rather let Tony stew in a boiling basement than –  
   
Tony coughs again, groans. “Where’r’we?”  
   
“Lagos,” Natasha tells him.  
   
“I know that,” Tony mutters, terse. “I mean, where are we now?”  
   
“A shop basement,” Wilson supplies.  
   
Tony sighs, although it sounds more like a groan. He sounds like he has cotton wool stuffed in his mouth. “Is there nothing – “ he mumbles, “ – nothing to – for the pain.”  
   
Steve winces. “Nothing,” he says, “I’m sorry.”  
   
“Hot,” is all Tony responds, eyes closing once more. “Too hot.”  
   
“He’s right. The more of us are here the worse. Sam, Buck, Nat and Pete – “  
   
 “I want to stay,” Peter blurts. “Let me stay.”  
   
“Don’t let the kid stay,” Tony mutters. It looks like he’s trying to smile, face bleached and lips cracked. “C’mon,” he says, addressing Pete directly. “You don’t want to see me like this.”  
   
What he means is, _I don’t want you to see me like this._ And Peter can’t worry him, can’t upset him, not now. “Alright,” he says, “if you need more webbing…”  
   
“It’s alright, kid,” Natasha says. “Leave Steve and Tony alone, give them some time.”  
   
“Then we’ll find you,” Steve swears, earnest, squeezing his shoulder. “You all need to get some sleep. We’ll swap over in six hours. Hopefully help will be here by then.”  
   
He says it with confidence. _Help will be here._ But Peter’s grown a lot in past few hours. Captain America and Iron Man aren’t superheroes any more; they’re flesh and blood men, squishy and soft, just like the rest of them.  
   
Peter knows that help won’t come soon enough.  
   
   
He’s woken by thumping. A scuffle. Beside him, Wilson and Banner and Barnes sleep peacefully; Wilson had given him the last blanket, even though it was too warm. It’s the thought that counts.  
   
Still, his heightened senses pick up the movement from the basement. How long has he been asleep? Long enough for the sun to set and a dark hush to come over the shop floor. They’re sleeping between an aisle of canned goods and different types of rice.  
   
He thinks, maybe they need help. Maybe Tony is sick. Quietly – he’s so quiet, like a shadow – he steps over Wilson and Barnes, creeps across the dirty shop floor and down the basement stairs, lingering, a spy.  
   
“Shh,” Steve is saying, voice softer than Peter’s ever heard him. “It’s okay, Tony. Here, feel. It’s just me. My hand, Steve, just me. No one else.”  
   
“Where’m’I?” Tony gasps, like there’s no air left to breathe. “Hurts, fuck, I can’t – “  
   
Peter hears retching. He smells blood.  
   
“Cough it up,” Steve urges.  
   
“I’ll tear the stitches.”  
   
“You won’t. The kid used his webbing. You’ll be just fine.”  
   
Tony gags, spits. “Hurts like a bitch anyway,” he croaks.  
   
A silence, just the sound of saliva and blood hitting the bottom of a metal bucket. “Had a bad dream?” Steve asks softly.  
   
“Yeah. Too hot. I’m gonna burn.”  
   
“You won’t. You’re just – running a slight fever, is all.”  
   
“Oh goody,” Tony croaks, huffing. There’s a brief pause, then; “I’m going to die.”  
   
“You’re not going to die.”  
   
“I heard you, both of you. Bruce – he said I won’t – “  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, forcefully. “You’re not going to die.”  
   
Peter hears shuffling, maybe Steve is wetting the towel for Tony’s brow. “C’mere,” Tony says, voice thick, like he’s swallowing blood. Or tears.  
   
“It’s alright,” Steve soothes.  
   
“It’s not alright,” Tony chokes. “It’s not. Just – hold my hand.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says softly.  
   
“Dammnit,” he cries out. “I didn’t want – I didn’t want it to be this way, Steve.”  
   
“It’s not going to be this way. Help will come, we’ll get you out – “  
   
“No,” Tony interrupts, and then hisses in pain. “No, I mean – us, this – “  
   
“Please don’t strain yourself,” Steve near begs. Peter has never heard him like this; soft, pleading, gentle, like his very words could cut Tony deeper than the metal that sliced his stomach.  
   
“I hate you,” Tony sobs. “I hate you.”  
   
There’s the wet sound of Steve dabbing Tony’s brow. “Do you want some more water?” He asks, as measured as possible.  
   
“Uh huh,” Tony responds, plaintive, like a child.  
   
Steve helps lift his head, and holds the cup to his lips. Tony drinks greedily. He pants when he’s done. “I’m sorry I said I hate you. I don’t hate you.”  
   
“I know,” Steve says quietly. “It’s okay.”  
   
“I don’t want to die.”  
   
“You’re not going to die.”  
   
“I – I have so much left to do. I thought I’d have more time. I thought – we would make it up, right? I know we fought, I know – I thought, a year, maybe two, we’d have more happy times. We could be happy again Steve, you know? Like how it used to be. I just want – “ Tony coughs, ominous, wet, a death rattle. “I want – I want – “  
   
“Tony, please,” Steve says, his words muffled. He hears a kiss, brushed against Tony’s knuckles. “You’re upsetting yourself. You can’t.”  
   
“I just,” Tony slurs, weakening. “I wanted us to be happy.”  
   
“We will be. After this, what say you and I go on a date, huh? Like old times.”  
   
“Old times?” Tony asks, weakly, almost – innocent. Peter has never heard Tony sound like this, childish, desperate. He never wanted to. “You mean that? Really?”  
   
“Sure. I’ll pick you up, and I’ll have the flowers.”  
   
Tony chuckles, thick, which turns into a cough. “Hopeless romantic,” he smile regardless, croaking. “Lilies.”  
   
“Right. And you’ll make the same joke you always make, about – “  
   
“’Lilies? What is this, a funeral?’”  
   
“But secretly you’ll be pleased. And you’ll be wearing the Versace suit, that’s cut tight.”  
   
“You love that suit,” Tony hums.  
   
“And maybe we take my bike, because you want to play at Titanic, and I’m your Jack, and you like to slum it.”  
   
“Carluccio’s,” Tony says dreamily. “Prawn linguine.”  
   
“With the house red. And you’ll flirt with the waitress in Italian to make me jealous.”  
   
“And you… you crumble your breadstick,” Tony laughs, woozily, remembering. “Shooting daggers. And then I say – “  
   
“’Babe, you know you’re the only blond for me.’”  
   
“You pretend to hate it, but you secretly like it, because… because you blush,” Tony sighs happily. “All the way from your roots.”  
   
Peter presses his back against the wall, lingers. He can practically hear the hairs of Tony’s head giving way under Steve’s palm as he gently strokes it back from his brow.  
   
He shouldn’t stay any longer. He _shouldn’t._  
   
“All of that,” Steve promises. “We won’t let a little agreement about – about a piece of paper get in our way.”  
   
Tony sobers. “Steve,” he says, with finality.  
   
“Don’t, Tony.”  
   
“Steve, if I die – “  
   
“You’re not going to die. Stop saying that. Stop.”  
   
“Look after the kid,” Tony croaks. “Make sure he – doesn’t make my mistakes. He’s good. He has the potential to be… so much more,” he says, voice growing wearier and wearier, like the very words are a struggle. “He’ll be the best of us,” he swears, weakly. “He’ll be the very best.”  
   
Steve doesn’t say ‘you won’t die’, or ‘don’t tempt fate’, or ‘he doesn’t need my help’. He says, ‘okay’, with the air of a man who wants to please his lover, with a realism, a practicality. Tony wants to hear those words. It soothes him to hear them. And Peter hears them kiss, briefly, briskly, without lingering. Forgiveness. A balm.  
   
   
He’s woken by a screeching.  
   
“Get up,” Wilson is hissing in his face, “get up, kid, quick.”  
   
“Whuzzit?” Peter manages, blearily sitting, propping himself against the wall. “Is it bad?”  
   
“It’s bad,” Wilson says, solemnly. “It’s back. We act now, we could cut it short, stop it before it spits any more of that shit, understand?”  
   
“I can help,” Peter slurs, adrenalin pushing him towards action. “I can – “  
   
“Peter,” he hears Steve says, tugging his shield onto his arm, “you’re sitting out. We can’t afford to lose you. You’re too young for this fight.”  
   
“But you said – you let me fight before – “  
   
“No,” Steve says, firmly, strong, unyielding. “That was a mistake. Tony’s sick, understand? He’s got fever, and – “  
   
He stops himself, and then continues. “You need to watch him,” he says. “Make sure he doesn’t tear the stitches. Don’t let him hurt himself. I  
   
   
   
   
   
The ceiling shakes, plaster dust settles on the ground. The fluorescent light swings dangerously, and Tony coughs. “Mom,” he croaks, “mom.”  
   
Peter doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know what to say. Tony coughs again, wet and hacking, groans. “Mom?” He says again.  
   
He’s trying to sit up. Peter can’t let him. “No,” he says, gently trying to ease Tony back onto the table. “No, Mr Stark, you’ve got to stay still – “  
   
“Who is he?” Tony asks, looking straight at him, not seeing him. “Who is he? Who are you?” He accuses.  
   
“It’s me,” Peter whispers, “it’s Pete. The others have gone to – get help, I’m watching you – “  
   
“No no,” Tony mumbles, “no no no. Mom,” he pleads, “I want mom.”  
   
Peter doesn’t know what to say. “Shh,” he settles for, “it’s alright, they’ll be here any minute – “  
   
“Mom,” Tony mutters, and then tries to sit up. “Got to go. Got to warn them.”  
   
“Warn them?” Peter asks, desperately. “Warn who? It’s – just me, Tony. Please, it’s Peter. It’s the kid.”  
   
   
 

**Author's Note:**

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